


Red, Yellow, Blue

by leiascully



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Community: smut_tuesdays, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-05
Updated: 2007-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:19:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She starts to lose colors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red, Yellow, Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: n/a  
> A/N: Finally a little somethin' somethin' for [**saara_zaara**](http://saara-zaara.livejournal.com/).  
> Disclaimer: _House M.D._ and all related characters are the property of Shore Z, Bad Hat Harry, and Fox. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

When House fucks her, she starts to lose colors. She's not sure how it happens - she'd ask Foreman about the neurology of it, but then she'd have to admit she's straddling his boss, whimpering and moaning into the dark hours of the night as House's cheek grates across her chest. It's an odd phenomena: they have sex in the dim of her bedroom, some light reflected off the mirror in the bathroom, and as his fingers dig into her hips, the colors fade out. Secondary first. She loses purples, pinks, oranges. He turns into bright blue eyes, skin that's watercolor overlay of red and yellow, hair that's a dark dusty blue (that she can't understand, but the rasp of stubble is blue too).

Sex with House is like living in a Picasso painting: it's all unexpected curves and angles and strange brightness that shouldn't work, but does. They are a hundred kinds of wrong together, but in the frame of the bed, it seems so right. He moves in her and she slides over him; she's the stroke of a brush on the canvas of his body; his fingerprints splotch her with red and yellow under her dazzled eyes; the lamps are shaded low light but he glows.

"God," she says, aching, reaching.  
"God is dead," he mutters into her clavicle, trying out the edges of his teeth on her humming bones.

Her bedspread ought to be dusky creamy green but it's a pointillist modernist masterpiece of blue and yellow dots. She and her furniture are coming apart on a molecular level. There ought to be a Lichtenstein WHAM around somewhere as they dissolve together under House's acidic tongue and clever hands. She holds her breath and squeezes. House surges up. She sees red everywhere. His eyes are blue. His head is haloed in yellow and she curls her fingers around his ear, a delicate grip to secure her as her body slides into new perspectives and everything goes skew.

"Oh, oh, oh," she says and whams into the point where sound stops, where the colors slap to pure white and she's the prism to refract them.

When she comes back to herself, the colors return, vivid. Her hair is violet washing across her face. Her knees are green, her arms are orange, and when they separate, heaving deep breaths like the sea, she's pink all over and he's flushed too, under all those shades of tan and brown and beige.

"God," she says again, quietly.  
"Whatever you say," he murmurs, draping a lean arm over her, his lean face pushed into her pillows. The shadows under his jaw are blue. The light filters orange through her eyelids.

She dreams in Technicolor clarity.


End file.
